


how you make the new street yours

by blue_spruce



Series: That Others May Live (The Pararescue Boys) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Military, Pre-Canon, Sam Wilson centric, Slice of Life, holiday fic, pararescue, team happiness for Sam WIlson 2k17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spruce/pseuds/blue_spruce
Summary: Sam is good at kissing;technically proficient, he’d laughed once in a voice meant to mock their CRO at the time; good like he is at most things, confident and skilled. It makes Riley furious sometimes, how easy Sam makes things look.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinsense/gifts).



[New Year's Day, 2011, 0035]

There’s a moment, in the cab – they’re stopped at a light, carefully not touching in the back seat – there’s a moment when a firecracker goes off down some alley nearby, and they both jerk their heads to the right, seeking the source of the sound.

A second later Sam lets out a breath that’s not a laugh but something like it, and Riley knows just exactly what he means by it. That knowledge, it squeezes something in his chest, a feeling kind of almost like how it is putting his uniform on after a couple weeks of leave: there’s a rightness to it, and something scraped raw, and always that sense of connection to something larger than himself.

There’s no one in his life who’s ever going to know him like Sam does. That’s just a fact, and it’s moments like this that confirm it.

“You remember last year? New Year’s?” Sam says, staring out the window, and it’s Riley’s turn to snort a laugh, this time.

“Mmmhmm, it’s not a holiday if you don’t almost die,” he says, dry, and watches Sam’s reflection smile.

 -

“I’m hungry,” Riley says as he slams the cab’s door closed.

Sam is shaking his head as they cross the street. “Dude,” he says. “Seriously?”

“What? I ran, like…” Riley trails off, retracing his route in his head. He jumps up the steps leading to Sam’s house, taking them three at a time, and Sam follows him. “Seven miles, I think, while your lazy ass was in bed this afternoon. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“You could’ve stayed in bed,” Sam says. He’s grinning when Riley turns to face him. Riley leans back against the wall next to the front door and just looks for a second, because god _damn_.

It’s a week ago now Riley gave him that black leather jacket. Christmas Eve. Just the two of them, that night; Sam’s sister’s house the next day. He’d spent a lot of time in Afghanistan dreaming about what Sam would look like, wearing something like that. It’s better in real life. It always is. He had thought a lot about how it would look, Sam’s broad shoulders filling it out, and how the leather would feel under his hands. He’d jerked off thinking about it. He hadn’t thought about what it would be like to stand on Sam’s front porch in the dark, warm with just enough whiskey.

“Lead the way,” Riley says belatedly, letting his eyes drift down Sam’s body.

Sam steps closer and Riley’s gaze comes back up, catching on Sam’s mouth. “Keys,” Sam says, leaning in; he noses along Riley’s jaw, not quite a kiss, and one of his hands falls to rest against Riley’s hip. It takes Riley a second to grasp his meaning. He’d forgotten that he’d borrowed Sam’s keyring for its bottle opener earlier in the night.

“Here,” he says, when he’s fished the house keys out of his jeans pocket. Sam’s thumb has slipped under the hem of his shirt, rubbing soft circles against his skin. The air is cold. Riley shivers.

Sam’s expression is shadowed in the dim light. “Thanks,” he says, turning towards the door.

 -

Riley follows Sam inside, into the warmth and the welcoming gold light of the little hall lamp. It’s quiet. He feels his shoulders loosen. The silence is nice after a night of loud conversation, loud music, all the city noise.

He toes off his shoes. The keys clink in the bowl on the hall table and then Sam is in his space, an arm curling around his back, a hand falling against his hip.

Riley kisses him, once, just soft and easy. “Happy New Year,” he murmurs. Sam’s jacket is cold under his palms. He presses closer.

His eyes fall shut when he kisses Sam again. Gentle, still; soft, but with more intent. This year – if there’s any truth to the idea that how the start of the year matters –

Sam is good at kissing; _technically proficient_ , he’d laughed once in a voice meant to mock their CRO at the time; good like he is at most things, confident and skilled. It makes Riley furious sometimes, how easy Sam makes things look. He bites at Sam’s lips now, punishment for the heat Sam’s already started coiling at the base of Riley’s spine, the fingers Sam has against the soft skin of his stomach, and Sam groans, jerking under Riley’s hands.

Sam makes another sound low in his chest when Riley rubs over the zipper of his dark-wash jeans, and Riley’s about a half-second away from just shoving his hand in Sam’s pants right there in the hallway when his stomach growls. Sam laughs into Riley’s neck and pushes him back a step. “You’re a goddamn bottomless pit,” Sam says. His eyes are warm, fond; he tilts his head down the hall towards the kitchen. “Go on, make a sandwich. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

 -

The best midnight sandwiches have turkey and cheese and spinach and tomato and sweet pickles and onion and bacon, at minimum. They finished everything except the turkey and pickles yesterday and haven’t gone shopping again, though, so Riley makes do with pickles and turkey and mustard. They have the good bread from the bakery down the street and that alone makes it better than any MRE.

He’s still working on it when he gets to the bedroom. Sam is under the covers, the lights off except for the bedside lamp. “Go brush your teeth,” Sam says, and Riley rolls his eyes because it’s fucking ridiculous, three weeks ago there was a span of 72 hours where they only got to sleep 8; Riley’s mouth tasted like coffee and adrenaline and blood for more than a day.

“Yes sir,” he says crisply, turning on his heel. The single bark of laughter that follows him down the hall warms him from the inside out.

 -

Slipping into bed feels kind of like what Riley imagines heaven might be like; the sheets already warm against his skin, and softer than anything he’s had for years now. He’ll never get used to this. Sam is reaching for him, his body soft and hard and blood-hot and real, and Riley falls into him.

“Hey,” Sam says, rolling them, bracketing Riley against the bed. He leans down and kisses Riley once, then again.

Riley pulls him close, chest to chest. He hooks a leg over the back of Sam’s knee, presses his face into the curve of Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey, you,” he whispers back. Hopes Sam hears _I love you_ tucked into the words.

Sam kisses his neck; Riley figures he probably does.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken's "Meanwhile."


End file.
